The words you sing entwine like the
start of a signature.
They fall from your teeth to the tune
of your old guitar and
I catch a handful of them to
save for later.
These words you’ve given me,
they’re waiting to
become a poem.
And this is how it’s always been.
I am the writer, you are the singer.
I try to capture the way your voice
is tangible to a crowd, warm enough to
reach up and touch.
I always end up with a
love poem instead.
We may have words, sometimes,
you and I, but we are not alike.
We are magnets, opposites drawn together
by some alluring melody; words
caught in the air between us.
This is what we are made of, lyrics and syllables,
stuff of a universe so diverse it’s big enough
for us both to write about.
In dreams
we meet in the warm conversation
of song, of poetry,
of our signatures at the end of these
masterpieces we’ve made,
the forgiving letters keeping us in chorus.
It’s not the strumming of that guitar of yours
but the words you pair with it
that make me love you so.
start of a signature.
They fall from your teeth to the tune
of your old guitar and
I catch a handful of them to
save for later.
These words you’ve given me,
they’re waiting to
become a poem.
And this is how it’s always been.
I am the writer, you are the singer.
I try to capture the way your voice
is tangible to a crowd, warm enough to
reach up and touch.
I always end up with a
love poem instead.
We may have words, sometimes,
you and I, but we are not alike.
We are magnets, opposites drawn together
by some alluring melody; words
caught in the air between us.
This is what we are made of, lyrics and syllables,
stuff of a universe so diverse it’s big enough
for us both to write about.
In dreams
we meet in the warm conversation
of song, of poetry,
of our signatures at the end of these
masterpieces we’ve made,
the forgiving letters keeping us in chorus.
It’s not the strumming of that guitar of yours
but the words you pair with it
that make me love you so.
